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“A lovely, big-hearted book…brimming with compassion and the tales of the many, many humans who devote their days to making animals well” (The New York Times).

Have you ever wondered if your dog might be a bit depressed? How about heartbroken or homesick? Animal Madness takes these questions seriously, exploring the topic of mental health and recovery in the animal kingdom and turning up lessons that Publishers Weekly calls “Illuminating…Braitman’s delightful balance of humor and poignancy brings each case of life….[Animal Madness’s] continuous dose of hope should prove medicinal for humans and animals alike.”

Susan Orlean calls Animal Madness “a marvelous, smart, eloquent book—as much about human emotion as it is about animals and their inner lives.” It is “a gem…that can teach us much about the wildness of our own minds” (Psychology Today).

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Animal Madness - Laurel Braitman

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Praise for Animal Madness

[A] lovely, big-hearted book . . . brimming with compassion and the tales of the many, many humans who devote their days to making animals well.

—Emily Anthes, The New York Times

This is a marvelous, smart, eloquent book—as much about human emotion as it is about animals and their inner lives. Braitman’s research is fascinating, and she writes with the ease and engagement of a natural storyteller.

This book should be required reading for veterinary and animal science students and for all who have any professional dealings with animals, wild and domesticated.

—Dr. Michael Fox, St. Louis Post-Dispatch

In the hands of an observant and engaging writer like Braitman, this story is an outstanding example of a rigorous investigation presented in a most accessible way. Readers will also be rewarded by the deep compassion and gratitude she shows for all her subjects, both the animals and the humans who care for them.

—The Bark

In the tradition of Marc Bekoff and Virginia Morell, Laurel Braitman deftly and elegantly makes the case that animals have complex emotional lives. This passionate, provocative, and insightful book deeply expands our knowledge and empathy for all species—especially, perhaps, our own.

Where the BuzzFeed Animals page, for example, urges us to see animals as an undifferentiated mass of squee-worthy fluff, Braitman wants us to take animals seriously—to see them as individuals with life histories and psychologies as dramatic and intense as our own.

—The New Yorker

"Humane, insightful, and beautifully written, Animal Madness gives anthropomorphism a good name. Laurel Braitman’s modern and nuanced definition of the word helps animals, helps people, and bolsters the connection between the two. Her thought-provoking book illuminates just how much we share with the creatures around us."

—Vicki Constantine Croke, author of The Lady and the Panda and Elephant Company

"Animal Madness is the sanest book I’ve read in a long time. Laurel Braitman irrefutably shows that animals think and feel, and experience the same emotions that we do. To deny this is crazy—which is why this fine book should be required reading."

—Sy Montgomery, author of The Good Good Pig

Fascinating.

—New York Post

"Compulsively readable and thoroughly engaging. Laurel has the rare gift of being able to combine ideas, research and personal experience into a compelling narrative. Yet behind the engaging tone and the lightness of touch there is a deep seriousness, as indeed there should be. For the ideas that animate Animal Madness are of the greatest urgency and importance."

—Amitav Ghosh, author of River of Smoke, The Glass Palace, and The Hungry Tide

There is much here that will remind readers of Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson—a gift for storytelling, strong observational talents, an easy familiarity with the background material and a warm level of empathy. . . . Engaging . . . Sparks curiosity.

—Kirkus Reviews

"Loving animals is easy. Thinking clearly about them can be almost impossible. Only a writer as earnestly curious as Laurel Braitman—so irrepressibly game to understand the animal mind—could draw this elegantly on both the findings of academic scientists and the observations of a used-elephant salesman in Thailand, on the sorrows of a famous captive grizzly bear in nineteenth-century San Francisco, and the anxieties of her own dog. Animal Madness is a big-hearted and wildly intelligent book. Braitman rigorously demystifies so much about the other animals of our world while simultaneously generating even greater feelings of wonder."

—Jon Mooallem, author of Wild Ones

The wonderful thing [Braitman] discovered is that it is possible for animals to heal, a message crystallized by her encounters with ‘friendly’ gray whales who sought out human contact, even though they still bore harpoon scars from the whaling days.

—Booklist

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Contents

Epigraph

Foreword

Introduction

1. The Tail Tip of the Iceberg

2. Diagnosing the Elephant

3. Family Therapy

4. Proxies and Mirrors

5. Animal Pharm

6. If Juliet Were a Parrot

Epilogue: When the Devil Fish Forgive

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About Laurel Braitman

Notes

Index

To all the animals I’ve loved before, especially Lynn, Howard, and Dr. Mel

You see a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.

The Cheshire Cat to Alice, in Lewis Carroll, The Annotated Alice

Some day I’ll join him right there,

but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,

his bad manners and his cold nose.

Pablo Neruda, A Dog Has Died

Foreword

A few months ago I was walking down a coastal trail north of San Francisco when I realized I was in love. The object of my affection was trotting ahead of me on a mysteriously urgent errand to smell a blackberry bush.

His name is Cedar and I am his human and he is my dog and he looks, depending on whether he’s curling his tail up over his back, like a tiny Akita or a dark fox.

It was my friend Vanessa who made sure I adopted him. I’d been in Portland less than two hours when she loaded me into her van and drove me to the Oregon Humane Society. I’d been talking about adopting a dog for a while but I was hesitant. When you’ve known loss—messy, broken, snot-sobbing loss—it takes bravery and more than a smidgen of self-delusion to let yourself become completely and totally enamored with someone else again. Even if, maybe especially if, that someone is a dog. For reasons that this book will make clear, opening myself up to another canine took me awhile. I was hesitant, cagey, and a little nervous. I was not, however, cynical.

I didn’t notice Cedar on our first visit to the shelter. Instead I’d asked to see a glossy black Labrador that turned out to radiate anger at other dogs simply for existing. It was on our second visit that we saw Cedar. He was mopey and sharing his cage with a shepherd mix. I took this as a sign that he wasn’t inherently angry. He also had soft pointed ears and looked like he was wearing white athletic socks on his front paws. When Vanessa pressed her hand against the chain-link of his enclosure, he padded over and leaned his weight into her, casting his eyes mournfully upward and sneezing. In the cement meet-and-greet area Vanessa gave him bits of cheese from a tube while I followed him around asking pointedly: Are you my dog? Can you tell me if you have separation anxiety? Please don’t have separation anxiety. Also, are you housebroken? Please be housebroken. How do you feel about boats? Cats? Strangers?

According to his chart, Cedar had been given up twice, once at six weeks old, and then again two years later. He’d been microchipped and when the shelter called the number linked to his chip they were told, We don’t want him anymore. No one would tell me why. It’s possible that no one knew but I think that it’s more likely no one was talking because they wanted this furry, sad little creature to find a home where people expected the best of him.

For some reason I cannot entirely explain, I did.

So far it’s working out really well. This is mostly because I hired a dog trainer to teach us how to behave. Her name is Lisa Caper and when she pulled up to my house for the first time, wearing a T-shirt with a version of Shepard Fairey’s iconic Obama/Hope image reimagined as a terrier with his head cocked and the word adopt written in giant block letters—I felt like everything was going to be okay. Things are also working out simply because Cedar is being himself. He has an inner calm and sturdy athletic confidence that my last dog did not. Most of Cedar’s problems, or I should say, my problems with Cedar, stem from the fact that living with him is sometimes a bit like living with a very tall raccoon. He loves to get his paws wet and then put them all over everything and he will eat anything and everything left out on the counter. He also hates speeding road bikes and their spandex-clad riders, though I don’t really blame him, and he thrills at the scent of cat, turkey sausage, and the dead seabirds that sometimes wind up on the beach near our house. He rolls on their remains until the wet feathers and tiny bones stick to his coat like a dead-bird costume. Already, after just a few months, I can’t imagine my life without him.

The truth is that I wouldn’t have adopted Cedar if not for this book and the readers who wrote to me with their own stories of dogs, cats, and other creatures they loved who tested their patience, the limits of their affection, and their preconceptions of animal minds. The stories of people helping phobic horses confidently face pedestrians with umbrellas, dogs cheering up elephants mourning lost companions, or goats rousing donkeys from deepest depression, blanketed me with hope not just for the ability of creatures to heal from emotional suffering but also the lengths that people and other animals will go to mend each other’s broken spirits.

One Texan rancher called into a public radio station in Houston to tell me that all of his dogs have personality quirks, some of them verging on mental illness but that a dog is just God coming at us ass-backwards. Whether you believe in God with a capital G doesn’t really matter. In every dog—and possibly every donkey, kangaroo, or dolphin, there is a chance, often far more than one, for grace, forgiveness, and recovery.

Introduction

Mac the miniature donkey can be kind of a jerk. He bats his eyelashes, angles his long furred ears toward you, flatteringly, like TV antennas, and pushes his belly up against your thighs. Then, just as you’ve grown comfortable with his small, stocky presence, his burro smell of sagebrush and sweet alfalfa, something dark and confusing stirs within him. He stiffens, whips his head back, and bites down hard on the bony part of your shin and doesn’t let go. Or he rears to stamp his hooves on your toes, or kicks his back legs like sharp springs in the direction of your kneecaps or into your actual kneecaps. If this wasn’t painful, it would be funny. Mac is, after all, the size of a goat. But because you can’t predict when it will happen, he is also a little scary. Mac shifts so suddenly from being affectionate and needy to violent and aggressive, transformations that don’t seem to be triggered by anything in particular, that some people have taken to calling him schizo donkey.

I am not one of these people. But I believe that he’s disturbed. This, however, is not Mac’s fault. Not entirely anyway. His mother, a stoic Sardinian miniature donkey, lived on the ranch where I grew up. She died within days of giving birth to Mac, and he was given to me to raise. I was twelve years old and saw this tiny donkey as a living stuffed toy. I spent hours bottle-feeding him and playing with him, until I got distracted by Anne of Green Gables books and my seventh-grade crush, a tan boy who skateboarded behind the local McDonald’s. Mac was weaned too quickly, exiled to a corral without a donkey mother to show him the ropes—a small, unself-confident creature among indifferent adults. Another donkey may have been fine, but Mac wasn’t another donkey. Eventually he began to turn his attacks on himself, biting his own fur off in chunks when he became frustrated or erupting in violent outbursts against people and other animals, outbursts that kept him from receiving the affection he also seemed to crave. Now, more than twenty years later, I know that Mac’s experience and the disturbing behavior that resulted from it, is far from unique.

Humans aren’t the only animals to suffer from emotional thunderstorms that make our lives more difficult, and sometimes impossible. Like Charles Darwin, who came to this realization more than a century ago, I believe that nonhuman animals can suffer from mental illnesses that are quite similar to human disorders. I was convinced by the experiences of many creatures I came to know, from Mac to a series of Asian elephants, but none more persuasively than a Bernese Mountain Dog named Oliver that my husband and I adopted. Oliver’s extreme fear, anxiety, and compulsions cracked open my world and prompted me to investigate whether other animals could be mentally ill. This book is the tale of what I found: the story of my own struggle to help Oliver and the journey it inspired, a search to understand what identifying insanity in other animals might tell us about ourselves.

There isn’t a branch of veterinary science, psychology, ethology (the science of animal behavior), neuroscience, or wildlife ecology dedicated to investigating whether animals can be mentally ill. What I have done in this book is draw together evidence from the veterinary sciences and pharmaceutical and psychological studies; first-person accounts of zookeepers, animal trainers, psychiatrists, neuroscientists, and pet owners; observations made by nineteenth-century naturalists and contemporary biologists and wildlife scientists; and many ordinary people who simply had something to say about animals doing odd things around them. All of these threads, when pulled together, suggest that humans and other animals are more similar than many of us might think when it comes to mental states and behaviors gone awry—experiencing churning fear, for example, in situations that don’t call for it, feeling unable to shake a paralyzing sadness, or being haunted by a ceaseless compulsion to wash our hands or paws. Abnormal behaviors like these tip into the territory of mental illness when they keep creatures—human or not—from engaging in what is normal for them. This is true for a dog single-mindedly focused on licking his tail until it’s bare and oozy, a sea lion fixated on swimming in endless circles, a gorilla too sad and withdrawn to play with her troop members, or a human so petrified of escalators he avoids department stores.I

Every animal with a mind has the capacity to lose hold of it from time to time. Sometimes the trigger is abuse or mistreatment, but not always. I’ve come across depressed and anxious gorillas, compulsive horses, rats, donkeys, and seals, obsessive parrots, self-harming dolphins, and dogs with dementia, many of whom share their exhibits, homes, or habitats with other creatures who don’t suffer from the same problems. I’ve also gotten to know curious whales, confident bonobos, thrilled elephants, contented tigers, and grateful orangutans. There is plenty of abnormal behavior in the animal world, captive, domestic, and wild, and plenty of evidence of recovery; you simply need to know where and how to find it. Oliver was my guide, even if he was too busy compulsively licking his paws to notice.

Acknowledging parallels between human and other animal mental health is a bit like recognizing capacities for language, tool use, and culture in other creatures. That is, it’s a blow to the idea that humans are the only animals to feel or express emotion in complex and surprising ways. It is also anthropomorphic, the projection of human emotions, characteristics, and desires onto nonhuman beings or things. We can choose, though, to anthropomorphize well and, by doing so, make more accurate interpretations of animals’ behavior and emotional lives. Instead of self-centered projection, anthropomorphism can be a recognition of bits and pieces of our human selves in other animals and vice versa.

Identifying mental illness in other creatures and helping them recover also sheds light on our humanity. Our relationships with suffering animals often make us better versions of ourselves, helping us empathize with our dogs, cats, and guinea pigs, turning us into bonobo or gorilla psychiatrists, or inspiring the most dedicated among us to found cat shelters or elephant sanctuaries.

For me, the realization that mental illness and the capacity to recover from it is something we share with many other animals is comforting news. When, as humans, we feel our most anxious, compulsive, scared, depressed, or enraged, we’re also revealing ourselves to be surprisingly like the other creatures with whom we share the planet. As Darwin’s father told him, There is a perfect gradation between sound people and insane. . . . Everybody is insane at some time. As with people, so with everyone else too.

I. In this book I refer to abnormal behavior as the people who spend time with these animals do: as madness, mental illness, evidence of mental disorders, insanity, and more. These are generic words unfurled like leaky umbrellas over a whole host of behaviors considered abnormal. They’re obviously unable to describe the ever-shifting patterns of the animal mind, not to mention the social expectations of what is normal in humans and other animals. Madness is a mirror that needs normalcy to exist. This distinction can be a murky one.

Chapter One

The Tail Tip of the Iceberg

A bluetick hound bays out there in the fog, running scared and lost because he can’t see. No tracks on the ground but the ones he’s making, and he sniffs in every direction with his cold red-rubber nose and picks up no scent but his own fear, fear burning down into him like steam.

Ken Kesey, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest

If a Dog Falls When No One Is Home

On a warm May afternoon in 2003, a little boy I’d never met was doing his homework in the sunroom off his family’s kitchen in Mount Pleasant, a leafy neighborhood in Washington, D.C. The back of our apartment building faced the boy’s house, and as he worked, he looked out to the row of urban yards along the alley, separated by chain link or small planks of sagging wooden fencing. He happened to look up that Saturday just as Oliver, our dark-eyed Bernese Mountain Dog, jumped through the kitchen window of our fourth-floor apartment.

No one had seen Oliver at the window, even though it must have taken him a long time to push the air-conditioning unit out of the way and rip a hole through the wire mesh of the screen that was big enough for his 120-pound body to fit through. The pet sitter that we’d left him with had gone to the farmer’s market, leaving Oliver by himself for two hours. He must have begun to slash and chew through the screen as soon as he realized he was alone. Once he made the hole large enough, Oliver hauled himself through the opening, more than fifty feet above the ground.

Mom! the boy screamed. A dog fell out of the sky!

Later the boy’s mom would tell us that she thought her son was making up a story, but there was fear in his voice that made her think otherwise. They found Oliver in the backyard of our building. He’d landed inside the cement stairwell of the basement apartment.

I’ll never forget the phone call that followed. I was clutching a gin and tonic and had, until that moment, been worrying about underarm stains on my new chiffon dress. Jude was drinking a beer and sweating through the knees of his pants. We were milling about, uncomfortable in the heat, at a wedding reception for one of Jude’s cousins in South Carolina. The wait staff had just announced the opening of the buffet when his cell phone rang.

The woman told us that she found Oliver lying in a heap. When he noticed her and her son pushing the backyard gate open, he’d tried to get up, wagging his tail weakly. Oliver’s lips and gums were bloody and raw from gnawing at the metal screen, and he couldn’t walk. The mother and son carried him to their car and rushed to the local animal hospital. In order to begin treatment the hospital required a $600 deposit; the woman gave them a check and then drove home to knock on the doors of our building to find out who this odd, broken dog belonged to.

The vets didn’t know the extent of his injuries when I left him, she told Jude and me when she reached us at the wedding, but they did say that they’d never seen a dog survive a fall like this.

Overwhelmed, we thanked the woman for her generosity and hung up. I begged Jude to leave with me immediately. But it was almost evening in South Carolina and we couldn’t make the last flight out in time. So we called the animal hospital to ask for any news (there wasn’t any yet) and sat through the rest of the wedding, distracted and scared.

* * *

When I was twenty-one and on my way into the bathroom of a bar in upstate New York, I met Jude. We fell for each other in a way that felt like head injury—wholly and completely, with the sort of blurred vision that seemed to make anything possible. Before long we had a list of top-ten future pets. After a trip to China and Tibet, it grew to include a pair of yaks, and from the beginning I wanted to live with a capybara, but mostly we dreamt of dogs. At the very top of the wish list was a Bernese Mountain Dog. Bred to guard livestock and pull carts of cheese and milk through the Swiss Alps, Berners are handsome, broad, and regal, with an air of accessible friendship. Dog food companies know this. So do automakers. Bernese are the supermodels of the canine world, popping up in advertisements for organic kibble, paper towels, perfume, SUVs, and phone plans.

When Jude and I moved into an apartment in Washington that allowed dogs and was located just off Rock Creek Park’s pools of water and walking trails, I started looking for puppies.

I found them. But I was crushed to learn that purebred Bernese Mountain Dogs sold for nearly $2,000 each. I was working for an environmental conservation organization at the time, and Jude, a government geologist, wasn’t earning much more than I was. We couldn’t afford a puppy that expensive, and even if we could, I couldn’t justify spending that much on a dog. So a few months went by during which we felt like perverts at the dog park—dogless people who came to look at dogs, luring other people’s pets over to be petted with clandestine pockets of treats. Heeeeere doggie doggie.

And then one day I received an email from a breeder I’d contacted a few months earlier. One of his adult dogs was available now, for free! He told me that this Berner, named Oliver, was four years old and wasn’t getting the attention he needed from his current family. He said that since Oliver was an adult dog he required slightly less exercise than a puppy and would be more easygoing.

I scheduled our first meeting to take place within twenty-four hours. When we pulled up to the veterinary office to meet Oliver and his current family, we saw a young girl walking a gigantic dog on the clinic’s front lawn. He carried his white-tipped tail like a flag, raised high and arching over his back. His white paws were lionlike, huge and spreading, and his coat glossy and feathered as a 1970s shag. He looked happy to be walking with the small girl, and his gait was jaunty as she led him back and forth across the lawn.

When I think about it now, it’s striking how much I didn’t notice. Adopting a family pet from a veterinary office and not the family’s home was perhaps the first clue. There were many others but I was blind to all of them.

Oliver was being boarded at the vet because he wasn’t legally allowed to remain in the family’s neighborhood. He’d had an altercation with a neighbor and her dog, and they were threatening to sue. While it sounds quite serious to me now, it didn’t at the time. The mother of the family, Oliver’s primary human, explained that he’d just gotten so excited about the neighbor’s new dog that he dashed through their electric fence to say hello. The dogs began to fight and the woman tried to break it up with her hands. Oliver bit the woman while she was trying to separate them. I didn’t need to hear more. Everyone knows you shouldn’t break up a dogfight with your bare hands; that’s what garden hoses are for. Plus, this neighbor must have been unreasonable. Jude and I would be able to control our dog. He just needed some training.

In retrospect I know the biting story was the tip of the iceberg, or really the tip of the tail on a very large dog, but at the moment I didn’t, I couldn’t, absorb it.

We’d fallen for Oliver at first sight. It felt more like a physical sensation than a conscious decision. It certainly wasn’t rational. We brought him home that same afternoon.

After a few days of cool appraisal, Oliver settled into a routine with Jude and me and became very affectionate. We spent hours playing hide and seek in our apartment and the park, playfully tweaking his whiskers, wondering aloud what his voice might sound like if he could talk, and filling endless trash bags with the fur we brushed from his coat. It wasn’t until a few months into our relationship with Oliver that his truly bizarre behavior started to manifest. But once it did, it spread like spilled molasses: sticky, inexorably expansive, and difficult to contain.

The first real sign of trouble I discovered by accident. Jude had already left for work. I said goodbye to Oliver and locked the house, only to realize as soon as I reached my car that I’d left the keys in our apartment. As I headed back up the block to our building I heard a plaintive yowling—not feline or human and not from the National Zoo, a few blocks away. It was a bark that sounded like the squeak of an animal too large to squeak (this was before I knew any elephants), and it was coming from our apartment.

When I stepped onto the front porch the barking stopped and was replaced by a loud skittering sound. As I climbed the steps to the top floor, the crablike skittering got louder. It was, I realized, the sound of Oliver’s toenails on the wooden floor as he sprinted back and forth along the length of the apartment. When I opened the door he was panting and wild-eyed. He bounded up to me as if I’d just returned from a months-long expedition, not a five-minute trip to the car. I picked up my keys, walked Oliver back to his dog bed, petted him a bit, and then got up to leave. When I reached the sidewalk I sat on the porch and waited. After about ten minutes of quiet, I stood up in relief. Then suddenly, after only a few steps, there it was—the yowlingsqueakbark. Again and again and again. I looked up and saw Oliver’s giant head pressed against our bedroom window, his paws on the sill. He was looking down at me with his tongue lolling. He’d waited to bark until he saw me leave the porch. I was already late for work. As I walked down the sidewalk I kept turning around. Oliver had moved to the living-room window so that he could watch me walk farther down the street. The barking increased when I turned the corner, and the whole drive to my office I could hear it inside my head.

That evening, when Jude got back from work, he discovered that Oliver had gnawed through the center of two bath towels and turned the pillows on our bed into a pile of goose down and shredded cases. There was also a mysterious pile of wood shavings in the hallway and toenail tracks in the floors, like ghost tracings on a chalkboard, in front of all the windows in the apartment. Strangely, his front paws were also quite wet.

Later that night, as Jude and I lay in bed, our heads resting on folded sweaters, he slid close to me and said, Do you think there’s anything that his old family didn’t tell us?

I could feel Oliver’s presence next to us in the dark. He always began the evening curled into a large oval in the doorway to our bedroom and then, after we’d fallen asleep, moved to his dog bed, a round cushion with the footprint of a Smart car, next to the sofa. He was breathing softly.

I can’t imagine they would have lied.

And yet, even as I said the words I could feel the doubt coming loose within me like disturbed sediment on the bottom of a pond.

What Darwin Knew

Trying to understand what was happening between Oliver’s furry ears while he savaged our towels or yowled alone at the window was confusing. In many ways, attempting to understand the relationship between what animals are thinking and what they are doing always has been.

In 1649 the French philosopher René Descartes argued that animals were automatons, lacking in feeling and self-awareness and operated unconsciously, like living machines. For Descartes and many other philosophers, capacities for self-consciousness and feeling were the sole province of humanity, the rational and moral tethers that tied humans to God and proved we were made in his image. This idea of animals as machines proved to be sturdy and enduring, revisited time and again for hundreds of years to prop up arguments for humanity’s superior intelligence, reasoning, morality, and more. Well into the twentieth century, identifying humanlike emotions or consciousness in other animals tended to be seen as childish or irrational.

The most resounding blow to this idea of human exceptionalism, at least in Western scientific circles, was delivered by Charles Darwin, first in On the Origin of Species, then in Descent of Man, and quite richly detailed in On the Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals, published in 1872. Expression was one of Darwin’s last published arguments in support of his larger theory that humans were just another kind of animal. He believed that the similar emotional experiences of people and other creatures were additional proof that we shared animal ancestors.

In Expression Darwin described surliness, contempt, and disgust in chimps, astonishment among Paraguayan monkeys, love among dogs, between dogs and cats, and between dogs and humans. Perhaps most surprisingly he argued that many of these creatures were capable of enacting revenge, behaving courageously, and expressing their impatience or suspicion. A female terrier of Darwin’s, after having her puppies taken away and killed, impressed him so much with the manner in which she then tried to satisfy her instinctive maternal love by expending it on [Darwin]; and her desire to lick [his] hands rose to an insatiable passion. He was also convinced dogs experienced disappointment and dejection.

Not far from my house, he wrote, "a path branches off to the right, leading to the hot-house, which I used often to visit for a few moments, to look at my experimental plants. This was always a great disappointment to the dog, as he did not know whether I should continue my walk; and the instantaneous and complete change of expression which came over him, as soon as my body swerved in the least towards the path (and I sometimes tried this as an experiment) was laughable. His look of dejection was known to every member of the family and was called his hot-house face."

According to Darwin this doggish disappointment was unmistakable—his head would droop, his whole body sinking a little and remaining motionless; the ears and tail falling suddenly down, but the tail was by no means wagged. . . . His aspect was that of piteous, hopeless dejection. And yet, hot-house face was really only the beginning for Darwin.

He went on to document grief-stricken elephants, contented house cats, pumas, cheetahs, and ocelots (who expressed their satisfaction with purring), as well as tigers, whom he believed did not purr at all but instead emitted a peculiar short snuffle, accompanied by the closure of the eyelids when happy. He wrote about deer at the London Zoo—who approached him because, he believed, they were curious. And he talked about fear and anger in musk-ox, goats, horses, and porcupines. He was also interested in laughter. Young Orangs, when tickled, reported Darwin, . . . grin and make a chuckling sound and their eyes grow brighter.

It wasn’t until he published a revised edition of Descent of Man in 1874 that Darwin opined on insanity in other animals directly. He wrote:

Man and the higher animals especially the Primates, have some few instincts in common. All have the same senses, intuitions, and sensations—similar passions, affections and emotions, even the more complex ones, such as jealousy, suspicion, emulation, gratitude, and magnanimity; they practise deceit and are revengeful; they are sometimes susceptible to ridicule, and even have a sense of humour; they feel wonder and curiosity; they posses the same faculties of imitation, attention, deliberation, choice, memory, imagination, the association of ideas, and reason, though in very different degrees. The individuals of the same species graduate in intellect from absolute imbecility to high excellence. They are also liable to insanity, though far less often than in the case of man.

Darwin doesn’t seem to have done any original research on the topic; instead he cites William Lauder Lindsay, a Scottish physician and natural historian who believed nonhuman animals could lose their minds. In a paper Lindsay published in 1871 in the Journal of Mental Science, he wrote, I hope to prove that, both in its normal and abnormal operations, mind is essentially the same in man and other animals.

Lindsay knew a fair bit about both, particularly the human insane. He’d been appointed medical officer to Murray’s Royal Institution for the Insane at Perth in 1854 and held the job for twenty-five years. Meanwhile he kept up with his botanical interests, publishing a popular book on British lichen in 1870, and like Darwin, he was a member of the Royal Society, which awarded him a medal for eminence in natural history. Lindsay combined his interest in natural history and his experience treating the mentally ill in a two-volume masterwork published in 1880 titled Mind in the Lower Animals. It covered morality and religion, language, the mental condition of children and savages, and more. But it is the second volume, Mind in Disease, that is truly remarkable.

Like Darwin, Lindsay believed that the minds of insane people, criminals, non-Europeans, and animals were similar. Insane people could be recognized by their use of teeth for vicious biting and their filthy habits. Lindsay wrote that many of these insane people ‘eat and drink like beasts,’ tearing raw flesh and lapping water; they bolt their food and gorge themselves as certain carnivora do. He also believed many preferred to spend time with other animals instead of people, acquiring something like animal language that allowed them to communicate with their nonhuman companions. Lindsay noted that an Italian idiot known as the Bird Man would leap on one leg, stretch his arms out like wings, and hide his head in his armpit. He also chirped when frightened or at the sight of strangers.

Lindsay also wrote about feral children like the Wolf Children of India, said to be raised by wolves. He classified them as a subtype of lunatic that walked on all fours, climbed trees, prowled around at night, lapped water like oxen, smelled food before eating it, gnawed on bones, refused clothing, and had no language, sense of shame, or ability to smile. Like generations of physicians before him, Lindsay understood his patients by analogy to other animals.

Insane humans were also compared to—and treated like—animals at the famous Bethlem Royal Hospital in London, the place that inspired the word bedlam for the chaos so often found within. Until the hospital outlawed visits by the general public in 1770, Bethlem was a popular spectacle. Watching the mentally ill, like the patient supposed to crow all day long like a rooster, was considered good entertainment, along with other pursuits, like prostitution, that flourished in and around the hospital. Despite serving as a human menagerie of the insane, Bethlem almost certainly housed sane people too, who had been committed because they were inconvenient or too eccentric for their families. As in an animal menagerie, the more uncontrollable patients were chained by the neck or foot to the wall and stripped naked. It’s not surprising that the stench and brutal conditions of the hospital, as well as the weird behavior of so many of its patients, tended to remind people of dog kennels or circuses. Conditions improved over time, but one 1811 visitor reported that chains and handcuffs were still being used, and some of the incurables are kept as wild beasts constantly in fetters.

Lindsay is intriguing because, despite working as the medical officer at another British insane asylum, he didn’t limit his studies to crazy humans acting like animals. He also refused to see animals themselves as dumb beasts. Instead Lindsay believed that animals themselves could go insane. He was even convinced that some human lunatics were more mentally degenerate than sane dogs or horses. In Mind in Disease, a sort of Victorian mental illness field guide, Lindsay posited many forms of animal insanity, from dementia and nymphomania to delusions and melancholia.

Lindsay was also convinced that animals exhibited what he called wounded feelings of many kinds, and he tells story after story on the subject. There was a mother stork who let herself be burned alive

Reviews

mishker-1

Humans and animals have shared this planet and some animals have even evolved side by side with humans. It should not be surprising that the animals that share our lives like dogs, cats and birds, or the animals that are forced into a more human life like performing, working or zoo animals would develop mental health disorders alongside the humans that they interact with. Through the lens of her troubled dog, Oliver, Laurel Braitman explores the world of animal mental health in everything from mice to dogs and gorillas to elephants in order to show that humans and every other animal are strikingly similar. I have always believed that animals were capable of emotions and when I studied animal behavior in school, I was glad to know that this thought was becoming more widely accepted. It is now not a question of 'if,' but to what degree. Though most of the stories in Animal Madness are anecdotal, there are stories amassed from professionals in the field with a whole life of observational experiences that provide good proof that through psychological meds and behavior therapy, an animal with severe trauma and possible PTSD could recover and lead a healthy life for their species. Some of the stories are absolutely heartbreaking; for example a working elephant who was pregnant and forced to work during her pregnancy and ultimately giving birth while logging. The calf rolled down the hill they were working on and died. When the mother refused to work, she was blinded. Ultimately, however, though the story is grim, the end result shows how we all need the same things: love, understanding of our needs, therapy and medicine. This book was provided for free in return for an honest review.

debnance_1

People aren’t the only creatures that can go crazy. Braitman experiences this firsthand when she acquires a crazy dog, a dog that so desperately needed constant human companionship that he hurled himself out a second-story window onto concrete when Braitman left the house. The author goes in search of more information about animals who exhibit extreme behavior and the result is this fascinating book.

undermyappletree

Through extensive research on various species throughout the world, the author reveals hows animals, like humans, can suffer from mental illness and can possibly be helped through treatment. Her interest in the subject began with her own dog, a rescue, who exhibited severe emotional issues and fear of abandonment. He was aggressive, compulsive, and one time jumped out of a 4th story window.This was a difficult and at times disturbing book for me to read. As a wildlife volunteer I observe animals in their natural habitats and am awed at what they do instinctively. Many of the animals the author profiled where wild animals – elephants, gorillas, birds – captured by humans; their stories are heartbreaking. When wild animals are removed from their natural environment, behavioral issues are often the result. I confess, I’m not a big fan of zoos or circuses. Many do an adequate job of providing for the animals, but far too many do not; a nice cage is still a cage.Audio production: The book was read by Madeleine Maby in a pleasant, easy to listen to voice. The book moves through a series of stories about the various animals the author researched, making this a good choice for audio over print.

whitreidtan

Those of us who are pet owners and consider our animals to be a part of the family have no trouble believing that animals do possess the consciousness that means they are capable of independent thought and the ability to feel emotions. But this also means that we believe that they possess the capability to suffer from mental illness, much in the way that human beings do. It is this sad idea that Laurel Braitman explores in her book, Animal Madness. Braitman and her then husband adopted a Bernese Mountain dog named Oliver. He was being surrendered by his current family but Braitman was given little information about why. It turned out that Oliver suffered terribly when left alone, even going so far as to jump out of a closed window in their apartment, plummeting to the cement below. Miraculously, he survived his fall but his anxiety and terror didn't abate at all. Although they tried everything to help Oliver, nothing worked to calm him. His clear, unmanageable, life long distress sent Braitman on a search into the origins and treatments of mental illness in animals. In addition to her own dog and other canines, Braitman looked at whales, dolphins, elephants, birds, horses, and primates, among others, and the documented problems they suffer as domesticated or captive animals. Taking newspaper reports, interviews with keepers, and communications with experts in the fields of animal behavior, veterinary medicine, and mental health, Braitman discusses the problem of diagnosing animals without anthropomorphizing them, the ways in which their diagnoses parallel human mental health biases of the time, the option of medicating or changing the behavior of the animals, and the ways in which human interference with wild animals has led to so many of the atypical, extreme behaviors we need to control or alleviate. Using anecdotal stories to support the wider neurological theory underpinning her conclusions, Braitman covers animals suffering from mental illnesses like depression, anxiety, OCD, and PTSD and even discusses the idea of whether or not animals can be suicidal. Although the book purports to suggest that understanding animals will help us understand ourselves, there is only a very tenuous link to that idea. Since animals cannot tell us what they are feeling, human beings must extrapolate solely from observations what is going on. It is therefore not surprising that it is all framed in the same terms that human mental illness is described.All of these observations have, by necessity, taken place on animals either living in captivity or that have been domesticated to one extent or another rather than factoring in any animals in the wild who manifest the same behaviors. Is this because they don't have these issues in the wild? Is it because it is too hard to study the same wild animals over extended amounts of time? Is it because these animals don't survive long in the wild? These are questions that Braitman doesn't address or acknowledge, making the book less complete than it should be for the conclusions it draws. There is certainly no doubt that the ways in which we bend animals to be what we want and expect of them, in zoos, parks, and our homes, does them no favors mentally and her indictment of our role in animals' mental anguish is not without basis for sure but as she cautioned in the very opening pages of the book, she seems to be anthropomorphizing quite a bit herself. It is sad to read about the variety of ways that animals harm themselves and others of their species and interesting to read about the ways, some more palatable than others, that we people try to help them conquer these atypical behaviors. Over all, the book opens a small window into the discussion about the well being of animals, specifically those under human care, living lives we don't recognize as normal, rich, and satisfying for them.